Read Online The Viking's Woman by Heather Graham - Free Book Online Page A

honey of her body, shimmering with a glaze of sweat from the sweet tempest between them, the shape of her breasts, the darkness of her nipples. He could see the scent of her.
    He had slain so many men that night. Sent them to rest with their Allah, sent them to heaven, Valhalla, or hell, he knew not which. But no amount of death and no spillage of blood could have stilled the pain that assaulted him and became one with him, one with living. It would not end. It would not cease to enter into him; would not cease to plague his dreams.
    He groaned again. His leg pained him, and that pain seared into his subconscious. Mergwin—the old Druid—with his haggard, lean, eternally wrinkled face—was haunting his dreams again. Eric smiled ruefully. “Begone, Druid! Leave my dreams to peace!”
    “You’re not dreaming,” Eric heard. He blinked and shook his head, but the face remained. Eric jerked up. Dizziness swept through him and he almost fell back.He fought the sensation and the room slowly ceased to spin.
    The Druid was indeed before him.
    Eric scowled fiercely. “You old bat from hell! What in Odin’s name are you doing here?”
    Mergwin sat by his side on the bed. Eric winced, gritted his teeth, and realized that the Druid was treating the arrow wound in his thigh. “Christ’s blood, but that hurts!” Eric swore.
    The Druid shook his head sorrowfully. “Eric, you have spoken of Christ and Odin and hell, and all within but a few breaths. Decide upon your gods, Young Wolf, and pray to them properly, if you would.”
    “How did you come here?” Eric demanded.
    Mergwin tied the poultice in place with a linen bandage. Eric was startled to feel the pain lessen almost instantly, as if there were truly magic in the old man’s touch. The Druid observed him pensively without answering.
    “I spoke to you!” Eric reminded him.
    He had his father’s temper, this one, Mergwin thought. Nay, more. Of all the brood of the Wolf and his princess, this one was truly the most like the sire. He possessed his own code of honor, and none could break it. But he would be demanding of all those who crossed him in life, just as he would be ruthless when brought to battle, any battle. He was as tall as his father and as golden a warrior, broader in the shoulders, heavily muscled, and still trim and lithe and agile. He could walk silently on leaves—Mergwin had seen to that himself—and yet he walked in power. He asked of his men no more than he gave. He dealthonestly, and men were quick to follow him. His justice was swift, and though his sword could be merciless, his judgment was ever fair and wise. His fault, Mergwin thought grimly, was a stubborn streak that ran wide and strong.
    “I cast your runes,” Mergwin said at last.
    Eric’s blond brow shot upward. “You cast my runes?” he repeated. Like himself, Mergwin had been born of an Irish mother—a witch, so many said—and a Norse rune master. The runes were symbolic stones; they could foretell the future—if a man believed in their power. Many of his men would not sail if the cast of the runes did not prophesy a good voyage.
    “I sought to find you ere you sailed,” Mergwin said. He checked the leg he had administered to so carefully. “Your ships had gone, and still I followed as swiftly as I could.”
    “Why?”
    The Druid stood. He stretched out his arms, indicating the manor and the land around them. “This! This is some treachery.”
    Eric scowled and tossed his blankets aside, determined to rise.
    “You should lie still. You will bleed again,” Mergwin warned him.
    “I cannot lie still.” Eric walked for the bowl and pitcher of water that awaited him on a side table. His leg blazed, but he did not let the Druid see his pain. He ducked his face into the water and the coldness of it awoke him.
    “It might have cured more easily,” the Druid told him caustically, “had you allowed the shaft to beproperly removed. But nay, the prince of fools must rip muscle and